


Rain, Rain, Go Away

by NotYourQuartermaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Doctor Sherlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, psychosomatic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5458193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYourQuartermaster/pseuds/NotYourQuartermaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's war wounds act up when it rains, and he tries to tough it out and ignore it. He quickly learns it was a bad idea when living with one such consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain, Rain, Go Away

Gunshots, explosions, blood, bodies. He was thrown to the ground by the strength of a sniper bullet lodged into his shoulder.

John woke with a gasp, sitting up and breathing heavily. He looked outside his bedroom window, watching the rain slowly drip down in long, quick streaks. Kneading a hand into his injured shoulder, he winced at the sensitivity as it spasmed a bit. It happens with injury, it just hurts more in the rain, and his case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder didn't help once so ever. He recalled Mrs. Hudson saying something similar about her hip and chuckled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and pressing rough hands to his tired features.

Bare feet padding gently into the kitchen, he acknowledged the hot cuppa sitting waiting for him that was there every morning. He yawned.

"Thank you, love." John's voice was gruff from sleep. He could see the top of Sherlock's curls peaking out from over the top of John's chair, not his own chair, of course. 'Yours is much more suitable for me, John,' rang through his mind. 

Sherlock didn't reply, paying more attention to a case he went on about, something to do with a butcher and his murdered daughter.

Not bothered by the lack of reply, he pressed his lips to Sherlock's cheekbone as he passed by his chair, straining his shoulder accidentally. Not wanting him to take any notice, John kept quiet, only offering a gentle rub to the scarred skin as he so often did. John sat on the sofa and read the paper, taking light sips of his cuppa. Unfortunately, his shoulder gave a burst of uncontrollable spasms, making him drop the cup, sending it shattering to the floor.

"Shit, sorry." John apologized and lowered the newspaper. This, was out of the ordinary, Sherlock noticed. He glanced over the top of his phone. 

"John?" He questioned quietly and looked at him curiously while John hurried to clean up the mess on the floor.

"I'm fine, just lost my grip on it is all." John smiled reassuringly and carefully picked up the shards of cup.

Sherlock wasn't convinced, but returned his focus to the case, mumbling about shoe sizes and cleavers to himself. 

After John sufficiently cleaned up the glass, he locked himself in the bathroom. Pulling off the thin cotton T-shirt he wore to bed, he leaned in closer to the mirror to inspect the scar. It was obvious where the bullet had hit him, a pale little crevice surrounded by a starburst of torn skin from the impact. The scar was a bit red, but otherwise looked normal, if not a bit irritated. He put a hot pack on it for a little while, hidden from Sherlock's gaze in their bedroom. After taking some aspirin, John decided he felt better. 

 

John had not felt better. In the cab on the way to the crime scene Sherlock was determined to see to, his leg started to act up on top of the pain in his shoulder, all out of john's control. The rain didn't let up either, not helping matters. 

Sherlock sent a glance to John when he was rubbing his thigh in the cab, but said nothing. He knew John didn't like to be treated like he was injured.

When Sherlock called John over to examine the body of the daughter, John's leg gave out from under him, sending him falling onto his injured shoulder on the wet concrete with a groan.

"John!" Sherlock called, at his side at an instant and pulling him up to stand on his good leg. 

"Lestrade, I'll text you the details I've found and I should expect the same from you." Sherlock grasped a firm arm around John's waist to keep him steady.

"Sherlock, I'm alright I-"

"No." The stern voice answered, grip tightening on his waist. Sherlock guided him away from the parking lot of the butcher's shop, hailing a cab from the main street, not letting John go until he was safely in the cab.

No words were spoken during the ride, and john refused to look at Sherlock, settling for looking out at a sopping London. When the cab stopped, John didn't have enough time to look before Sherlock pulled on him, but a more delicate grip this time. He looked at the ground as Sherlock helped him walk up to the flat, fumbling around with his key before lifting John a bit so he could step into the flat. 

"I don't understand why you didn't tell me you were hurting earlier." Sherlock spoke quickly as he slammed the door and began to strip off his and John's wet coats and shoes, shaking both coats dry. 

Before John could answer, he was swooped up into a hold, Sherlock let out a breath and he carried his partner up the few stairs, surprised when there was no protest from the smaller man. 

Letting him down at the top of the staircase, Sherlock placed a cold palm to his forehead, then down to his cheek.

"You have a fever." he notes with s frown. Sherlock guided him into their bedroom and under the sheets before crawling in next to him. "Sleep." He ordered, then leaned over to press his lips delicately to the offending scar. He lay his head down on the uninjured side of John's chest, knowing it was the only way to get him to sleep. 

When he woke, Sherlock was sitting up next to him with a computer in his lap, fingers tapping quickly along the keys. He had since stripped off his shirt and changed John and himself into pajama pants, obviously determined on staying in the flat for the rest of the day. 

"It's all in your head, you know." Sherlock spoke, handing John a cup of tea as he sat up. "The shoulder I can understand, but the leg-" Sherlock cut off with an annoyed groan, slamming down the lid of his laptop and setting it aside, along with the tea John only took a few sips of. He uncovered John's legs aggressively and slid down the bed to inspect the one he limped with. 

"Does this hurt? What about that?" He asked, prodding John's leg harshly and looking up every time to check his reaction. John frowned and moved away from the offending touch wordlessly.

Sherlock's face softened. "I'm sorry." He said before he pressed a soft apologetic kiss to the thigh. He stared at his leg for a few moments before speaking again, looking up at John. "Everything you are feeling is in here." Sherlock pressed a finger gently to the center of John's forehead. John rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You were not shot here, John." He reached down and gave a soft stroke to his thigh. 

"I know that. It's just my-" John let out a puff of air and gestured to his head, then looked down to his leg as he tested it's movements. The muscles in his thigh twitched with involuntary movement.

Sherlock ran a hand down to his calf. "I know." 

"It comes and goes sometimes, you know it gets worse in the rain." John reassured running a hand through soft curls and down to trace the nape of his neck, down to his back. 

"You shouldn't have to try to hide it from me." Sherlock replied, staring up at him. John was about to reply but Sherlock let out an "oh!" and hopped off the bed, out of their bedroom in a second, leaving John alone. "Well, then." John shifted and huffed when Sherlock came back a minute later, holding a small tube of something and squeezing a good amount of it on his hand. He carefully climbed over John to sit over his stomach, ignoring his protests.

"W-what is that?" John asked, veering away from the cream after a huff of lost breath as the heavy detective constricted his lungs.

Sherlock sighed and clenched his thighs tighter around John's waist to keep him still. Ignoring the "Oi, you're not as light as you look, you know,"

"Cream, it's supposed to help. Got it while you were asleep." Sherlock announced before he began to dab it on the scar, and rub the cream in slow circles with his thumb. 

"Mm. Feels nice." John sighed and relaxed at the icy feeling the cream left on his skin. "How long was I asleep?" He mumbled, looking for the time.

"Almost five hours. Your body was physically exhausted, luckily you slept off the small fever and your shoulder stopped seizing. With the added sleep your brain should correct itself with the leg, you'll forget about it soon enough and you'll be fine." Sherlock finished, rubbing in the rest of the cream before climbing off him only to lay on his uninjured side, head planted under his chin.

"I thought I was the doctor here." John chuckled and pressed a kiss to the curls as Sherlock wrapped his arms protectively around John's torso.

"Sometimes even doctors need attention." He replied with a blissful sigh.

In that moment, John felt much better.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on here. I've had this little fic in my notes for awhile, and decided I should post it, along with a few others. Criticism is welcome. Thanks!


End file.
